Silence
by Flameofdeath
Summary: Patria and Wine have much in common, Enjolras realizes. As for R, life ends in silence. Please R&R!


**"Silence"**

A/N: This is technically my first Les Miserables Fanfic, as this was half written before my drabble, "A Sacrifice". This, just like that drabble is NOT slash, not because I have anything against it, but because I like keeping to canon, and while I love Enjy/R slash, I could never write it in a satisfactory manner. Feedback, suggestions, critisim, praise (^_^) is welcome and encouraged, as I am only 15, and still perfecting my writing style.

Summary: Grantaire and Enjolras see how much in common their respective mistresses (Patria and Wine) are, and muse on life ending in silence

Thanks to: All the people at Livejournal who first read the first half about a month ago and commented positively on it to inspire me to continue this. Thanks to Loreena McKennitt's "Stolen Child" which was the song I listened to when writing this piece. (Credit to W.W. Yeats poem, as those are the lyrics). Special thanks to the snow, as we received a snow day instead of my Global History exam, and thus I proudly sat down to finish this fic instead of studying for my Biology midterm.

I talk too much. Enjoy the fic, and Review!

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Enjolras sat on the roof of Café Musain, alone and holding a wine bottle in his hand, something rarely witnessed. Chancing a small drink straight from the bottle, he let his hand drop from his mouth to hover about his chest. He was not drunk, no, far from it. Yet, even with the obvious indications proving that he was quite sober, Grantaire could tell that his idol was suffering from some other condition.

Completely unaware of the fact that he was being watched, the pale-faced Apollo stared up at the night sky above him, deep in his contemplation. In his childhood, which seemed so far away now, he would build forts of snow to protect himself from his cousins' inexhaustible ammunition of snow and ice. Tomorrow, they would be building a barricade much larger than his small, insignificant snow fortress, and they would guard themselves against, not snowballs, but balls of metal. Tomorrow they would fight. And they would continue to fight, until each one of them was dead.

Marcelin Enjolras was not prone to fear. Indeed, he was not well-acquainted with this alien emotion until now. Though he would be the last to admit it, he was beginning to doubt their actions. He had handed not only his life, but the lives of others who were dear to him, into the hands of the most cold, demanding mistress—their motherland. This was a mistress that demanded the attentions and efforts of everyman to be lavished upon her every opportunity they might, with no more thought to the consequences. Yet knowing this, still Enjolras led himself and his companions into this battle. Into the battle of the night that may or may not lead to a glorious dawn.

Sebastien Grantaire had no way of knowing what was going through the mind of this handsome statue. Yet, he remained silent as his demi-god lost himself in his own ponderings, out of respect than anything else. For who could not respect the marvelous Enjolras, a true Helios, one worthy to drive the chariot of the sun across the sky? The immortal Enjolras, Grantaire has often said to his ikon, this pope of the republic, his statements of flattery no more mocking than the disdain Enjolras never failed to show him.

Try as he might, Grand R, as he was known to sign his name, could not stay silent for long, and was unable to stifle a cough. No less keen than usual, Enjolras turned around, narrowing his eyes slightly as he saw Grantaire far behind him. He opened his mouth to say something, only to close it and turn sharply about again. The pain this simple gesture caused Grantaire was not hidden from his face, but he stayed right where he was.

"You followed me up here," Enjolras stated, startling Grantaire.

He shrugged in reply, and then remembered that Enjolras could not see him and simply replied, "Perhaps, and perhaps not."

"Does this please you?" Grantaire was demanded of, a sense of fury taking control of Enjolras's voice. "Does it amuse you to watch us night after night, while you do nothing but drink yourself into a stupor?"

Unsure of the meaning of this question, Grantaire truthfully answered, "It is most marveling and interesting to listen to all your ideals and if you succeed in amusing me as well, it is hardly of my fault."

There was no answer to this.

After a few minutes, Grantaire, unusually sobered by his curiosity, ventured forward and asked, "And what does the great Apollo ponder as he awaits his time to ride the sun chariot? What does such a being think of with stitched eyebrows the night before our judgment day? Even a being such as yourself needs to pay visit to Hypos as all us mortals do?"

"Be still," was the irritated answer.

Grantaire did so.

"Your drunken ramblings are of no use to me, and I wish to have nothing to do with them," he continued. "Wallow in your cynicism if you will, your lack of belief in anything and everything. But do not dishonor the republic and those true to it!"

Raising one hand up to the gods, as if pleading with them, our Dionysus cried out, "Heaven forbid the great Apollo punish me with his merciless wrath! Oh, the cruelty! That such an immortal being not allow a mere mortal to revel in the presence of such divinity!"

"Winecask!" and Enjolras angrily threw his bottle down toward Grantaire, who took it and held it proudly like his thyrsos, the proud staff of Dionysus.

"Behold! A token from the gods! How divine and precious this ambrosia! Fit for the gods, I thank you for this gift which I treasure!" Grantaire praised, taking a large swig from the bottle.

You're drunk, and speaking nonsense, Grantaire!" Enjolras stated angrily, getting to his feet. 

"Undoubtedly so, monsieur," Grantaire assured, his eyes never leaving Enjolras's face. As always, the fair man's face showed deep disgust to this pitiful drunk.

"Why?" Enjolras asked, after a few moments of silence. Eyes locked, he pressed, "Why do you ruin yourself like this?" Grantaire picked up on the curiosity beneath the disgust and smiled broadly.

"Whyever not, dear Apollo? Have you truly ever tasted the wine? Treasured its flowing substance, relished the euphoria that this ambrosia of life gives?" He paused thoughtfully, "It is my mistress," he finished, softly, much as Enjolras had when describing his Patria.

"And then, enlighten us, wretched winecask, what sort of mistress is the wine?" was the next inquiry, as mocking as only Enjolras could be to Grantaire.

Lowering the bottle that rested at his lips at that moment, he looked at the man with pain in his eyes. "And may I ask the same of your Patria?"

Herein lies the irony that life brings to us. Grantaire, as he insisted, is only a mere mortal, and is in no way Dionysus save in name. Therefore, we are forced to conclude that he had no way of knowing how this same thought perturbed his ikon only moments before his intrusion. And so we see fate's tangled webs came to a knot, where Grantaire, so desperate in his attempts to reach Enjolras, has finally succeeded too late and without attempt. His mind was only filled with curiosity and concern for the youth standing before him.

And as for this youth, this immortal Apollo, what trials did his mind stand?

The young man felt an inexplicable emotion, much akin to déjà vu. In fact, this young man, this adult with the face of a choir-boy, would indeed label it as déjà vu, save for the insignificant fact that he had never experienced déjà vu before. Glaring at the man sitting before him, Enjolras was about to fall back into his reverie when he was once again intruded upon by Capital R.

Grantaire, at this point, was not prepared for Enjolras's long silence, but a witty, mocking statement that would be his parting words before he set off on his way. Fearing that he caused his demi-god some pain, he answered the earlier posed question, respectfully, "The wine is a mistress that no man can describe. Treacherous is her company, yet comforting. She is without the mindless chatter of normal women and yet while she lack lips, her ears are present everywhere. A comforting presence, until it is gone," he paused, looking at the bottle he shielded in his hands. "And then it ends with silence."

This remarkable speech, without its ridiculous allusions to some mythology, could only hold wonder for Enjolras. The similarities between the deities they served was more than uncanny, it was unbelievable. Enjolras, never one to explain himself should he choose not to, turned on his heel and began his route leading off the roof. This speech, short in length, was more voluminous in emotion than any of Enjolras's speeches delivered so far.

Why did the one time Grantaire speak sense, strike that emotional chord within this cold pale-faced leader?

Grantaire watched Enjolras leave with pained eyes. He spoke his heart, the inner truth which he felt, to the one person he felt worthy of hearing it. The one person who possibly could understand. Could they not grieve their fate together, Grantaire foolishly hoped. Must they forever be divided, forever commit themselves wholly and purely to their mistresses? If it was to end, could they not end it in peace, in reconciliation? Grantaire grieved, as he did not remember grieving before.

Dionysus and Apollo parted in silence. And it was that same silence that Grantaire feared from the moment he laid eyes on that pale-faced, blue-eyed youth at the café corner, giving a remarkably poignant speech. It was that same silence that would reduce this young man from the god he was, from the superhuman, to a common dead terrorist at the barricades.

Would that Grantaire have known that Enjolras knew!

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A/N: Thank you for reading! Please review....please?


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